


Accidents

by MlleBree



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-04-28 07:51:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14444718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MlleBree/pseuds/MlleBree
Summary: His life was such a miserable series of unfortunate events that it had reached the point of absurdism; he refused to believe that it was any sort of luck. Someone was purposefully raining punishment down on him. Fluffy smutty smut. Very smutty smut.





	Accidents

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse other than sleep deprivation and vodka. I have no idea what just happened. Enjoy!

It was a fluke; accidental in only the worst of ways. He had certainly never  _intended_  to touch her breast and yet, when he looked down, that was exactly what he found.

Erik was cursed. That was the only explanation that made any sense at all - surely he had crossed a witch or some vengeful God. His life was such a miserable series of unfortunate events that it had reached the point of absurdism; he refused to believe that it was any sort of luck. Someone was purposefully raining punishment down on him.

Christine was a dancer at some point. He was sure of that - he had watched her with the corps. She had seemed so graceful, so elegant.

He refused to believe that she regularly caught her shoe in the hem of her own dressing gown. He absolutely, obstinately, refused to believe that there was any sort of coincidence or chance at play.

It had all happened so quickly that he hardly had a moment to think about it. It had been a particularly long, trying rehearsal for Christine and she strode two long, irritable steps in front of him on their trek to his home. This is why he knew that he was cursed; if he had not been cursed the candelabra would not have tipped and fallen on the rug in the music room, necessitating a rather lengthy delay on his arrival to the dress rehearsal. If he had been there on time he would not have missed the way Carlotta had sneered at his darling Christine and mocked her pronunciation of one word or another. If he had seen that he surely wouldn't have made the off-handed comment that they needed to work on pronunciation when she stepped into her dressing room. If he hadn't said  _that_ , she would have been walking beside him instead of in front of him. She would not have been stomping so agitatedly; her foot would not have caught in the hem of her dressing gown. Her pretty face would not have come so dangerously close to colliding against the stone floor with devastating force and his hand would not currently be sat lewdly on her bosom.

You see? He was cursed. And perhaps, if he'd had half a mind, he could have brushed it off as the accident that it was. Only now she was perfectly balanced on her feet and he was staring at his hand on her breast.

He had not only  _groped_  her, he was now  _ogling_ her like the true monster that he was. He was absolutely mortified.

The moment he regained the  _ability_  to, he pulled his hand away quickly. "I -"

"Right," she said softly, staring at him in the strangest way.

"I didn't -"

"I know," she answered, biting the inside of her lip as she finally looked away from him.

It was his turn now to stride on ahead of her, finding himself grateful, for the first time in his life, for the mask that he was forced to wear. His cheeks burned and he had certainly made enough of a fool of himself without blushing like an idiot.

Her footsteps were clearly defined, irregular and struggling to keep up with his purposeful pace. He had known the moment that he smelled burning that it wasn't going to be a good day - still, he had held out hope. He always held out hope like the foolish, idiotic -

Her fingers tugging on his sleeve slowed his step instantly, wiping that particular train of thought away completely.

"Erik?" she said softly, her fingers shifting as she laid her hand in the crook of his elbow. Her eyes burned him and he couldn't bear to look at her - instead he gazed straight ahead in hallway. "I'm sorry. I know - I had no reason to be upset with you. I was only irritated and taking it out on you isn't fair."

She  _had_  no reason to be upset with him. Such was clearly not the case now. He gave no answer, finding that he couldn't find one that seemed even slightly appropriate. He could still feel the warm swell of her flesh in his palm, he could see the soft way that she had looked at him; her perfect, lovely lips parted slightly in surprise. His mouth was terribly dry.

Seeming completely oblivious to his thoughts she sighed, shifting her grip on his thin arm. The difference in their height made it difficult for her to truly hold it properly and often her hand would lazily slide to his wrist instead. "Are you terribly cross with me?"

"What?" he asked in surprise and when he finally glanced over at her he found true concern in her eyes. "I am not cross with you, Christine. It is you who should be angry with me."

She smiled softly at that, seeming relieved, and her reaction only confused him all the more. "It was an accident, Erik," she answered kindly. "An actual accident - not like that fire in Carlotta's dressing room. I am not upset with you."

"She should thank me," he grumbled defensively. "That wig was dreadful anyway."

Her laugh was a light, bell-like thing. It was music to his ears. He was not particularly adept in social situations and he certainly hadn't meant it as a joke but every so often he stumbled his way into something marvelous - he treasured her easy laugh.

"So how dreadful is my pronunciation?" she asked as he helped her into the ridiculous gondola.

He hummed as he poled them easily across the lake, trying desperately to ignore the way she leaned against his legs. It was so natural to her; the simple, meaningless contact. He was sure that she hadn't the slightest idea what it did to him - it was the sweetest sort of torture. "It is not  _dreadful_ ," he said eventually when he was finally able to find his train of thought. "It could use a bit of work - you have gotten comfortable with the score. You only need to be mindful of your technique."

"Carlotta said -"

"Carlotta is a jealous old hag," he said, stopping her thought before she could take it any further. "You would do better listening to the advice of the old beggar man that sits on the Rue Gluck every evening."

She sighed at that, leaning a bit heavier against him, and he was only glad that the shore was fast approaching. Even the slight brush of her fingers against his hand as he helped her out of the boat was enough to set him on edge and, oh, he needed a drink so terribly.

With that in mind he made his way inside, leaving her standing in the entryway as he trudged into the kitchen, digging under the cupboard and - oh, well, wine would have to do. Had he known he was so dreadfully ill-prepared he would have seen fit to visit the kitchens.

As it was any alcohol would do. He poured himself a generous glass, uncaring when the glass clinked against the edge of his mask just over his lip.

Something in him knew that she had followed him. She stood in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest as she watched him. He wondered if he should offer her a glass, too, or if that would be just a bit too forward.

"What's the matter?" she asked, cutting through his thoughts before he could even bring himself to decide whether he should offer or not.

And, well, he certainly couldn't confess the  _truth_  to her. He could hardly tell her that the accidental brushing of his fingers against her in such an intimate way had set him aflame; he couldn't tell her that her touch burned him in only the most desperate and lewd of ways. He couldn't confess the way that he craved her, the way that he ached for her. Instead he clutched his glass tightly in his fingers and shook his head. "Absolutely nothing sweet, silly girl," he lied gently, taking another long drink from the glass.

Only her eyes settled on him and he could clearly see that she didn't believe his lie; she had never been  _stupid_ , much as he sometimes wished that she was. Her strides as she made her way across the room were confident, knowing, and when she pried the glass from his fingers he allowed it without a single argument.

He watched in muted surprise as she lifted the glass to her own lips, taking a long drink from the glass that had only just touched his own terrible mouth. She hummed warmly, wiping at her perfect lips with the back of her hand. "It's very good," she murmured, looking straight at him in the most knowing of ways.

What exquisite torture, he mused. When she held the glass out in offering he took it hesitantly, staring at the edge where the faintest hint of rouge left the shape of her lip on the clear glass. The rouge that she had carelessly wiped away after the dress rehearsal. He felt his heart skip in his chest as he stared at it. "Would you like a glass?" he asked breathlessly, unsure what to make of her sudden boldness, of the troublesome gleam in her eye.

"No," she answered, seeming to soften just the slightest bit.

He was lost, drowning in her eyes. Instead of trying to make sense of it he lifted the glass to his lips again, sipping carefully from that spot that she had touched and - oh, how short her visit would be. He never should have insisted on this - on bringing her here tonight. The moment he had touched her he should have taken her above. He was a monster, weak to his own warring desires. He  _refused_  to show himself a monster to her. He  _refused_  to allow himself to reach for her as he so desperately ached to.

"You are tense," she observed innocently.

He sputtered, nearly choking on the smooth wine. She stepped forward, her sweet, gentle fingers taking the glass from him again and setting it on the counter as she looked at him in concern. He was trapped, utterly trapped by her gaze, trapped by the look in her eyes that he couldn't quite decipher. He shook his head slowly, his hands hovered over her shoulders, caught somewhere between the desire to pull her to him and the sensibility that told him to push her away.

Her teeth tugged thoughtfully at her lower lip and - oh, oh, he should look away but he couldn't bring himself to. He was completely enraptured by the sight. His head swam with her closeness; he was certain that he hadn't drank enough for this lightheadedness to be explained by anything other than her close proximity to him.

Her teeth released their hold, her lips parting just the slightest bit, her eyes were warm and hazy and she was leaning forward, so close that he could feel her breath on his lips, so close that his own breath caught as he froze, utterly convinced that he was dreaming.

Her warm fingers rested against his thin chest and it was so much, too much. He should stop her, he was sure of that. Everything in him screamed, begged him to pull away, to retreat, to escape from this enrapturing horror show that he hardly felt part of.

The first brush of her lips against his hardly registered in his mind. Something in him argued so desperately that it was all some terrible bit of his imagination that he had allowed to roam too dangerously far. The second press couldn't be denied - it was meaningful and warm, firm, and he was certain that even  _his_  imagination was not quite good enough to conjure the taste of sweet wine that still lingered on her breath.

"Oh," she breathed in surprise as she pulled away from him. Her fingers hovered over her lips as she stared at him where he stood, frozen, against the counter.

He should say something, he knew that well enough, but he was thoroughly paralyzed, unsure of what exactly had just occurred. His hands still hovered just where her shoulders had been despite the fact that she had moved away from him. He couldn't even force himself to breathe for a long moment as he watched confusion flit through her dilated pupils, as he watched her fingertips press gently against her lips.

"Oh," she said again, softly, her eyes still trained on him in the oddest of ways. "Erik?"

In that moment he wasn't quite sure whether he should weep or pull her to him. Instead he forced himself to breathe, his hands falling limply to his sides as his hazy mind attempted to decipher what had occured.

"Erik?" she repeated gently, taking a slow step toward him. When he made no response she reached out slowly, taking his left hand between both of hers. Her hands were warm, so warm that he felt the heat radiating from her even through the thick leather of his gloves. "Please say something," she whispered.

He cleared his throat roughly, staring at her hands wrapped around his. "I don't -" he tried softly, shaking his head as he avoided her eye. "I think that - that we can agree to believe that was all some sort of dream."

The way that she looked at him told him that he had surely said the wrong thing and yet he hadn't the strength to take it back. He couldn't even find it in him to pull his hand away from her grasp as he was sure he should.

"Erik," she said again, his name shaking on her lips. One of her hands was trailing up his arm, slowly finding its way to his shoulder and his own breath was a trembling thing. "I - I'm going to kiss you again," she warned him softly.

He hadn't the will to resist her. Not when she leaned up so close against him on her tiptoes, not when her hand cradled the back of his neck so gently. For a moment he was utterly convinced that his heart was going to give out - and then her warm lips pressed against him again and suddenly it began to beat, to race in his chest.

A dream - he was utterly convinced that was all this could be. Some fevered, dangerous vision of his mind. If it was a dream, surely he could not feel guilt for it.

He allowed his lips to move against hers. He allowed himself to lean forward. He let his fingertips run so gently up her sides until they found the edge of her perfect jaw, hovering there lightly, unsure where else to go.

She sighed warmly against his mouth and, intoxicated on the sweet sound and the brush of her lips against his, he allowed one hand to slip further back, tangling itself in the wild curls at the base of her head.

If it was not a dream then surely he could claim that he had believed it to be. He was a madman, after all, and not even the girl who sighed so sweetly against his mouth could argue that.

When she broke this kiss it was with wide eyes and a heaving chest. She stood just where she was, making no attempt to pull away from his touch, her hand still rested on the back of his neck as she caught her breath.

"I have always wondered," she confessed on a whisper, the words reedy and breathless.

He was fascinated by her. By her reddened, swollen lips, by the gleam that had found its way into her eyes, by the pink flush in her cheeks. He let the back of one long finger trail gently against her cheek, his breath catching with hers. "What it would be like to kiss a monster," he accused, unable to truly find any anger in himself at the moment.

She shook her head and her hand caught his, pressing the back of it fully against her cheek, her fingers entwining with his. "What it would be like to kiss  _you_."

"It's all the same, isn't it?"

Her eyes softened with his words, her fingers tightening their grip on his as she sighed sadly. "I don't think it is," she answered eventually.

Finding himself bravened by her own brazenness he leaned forward slowly, pressing his lips to her forehead so gently. "You are naive," he murmured.

"You are stubborn," she countered easily.

At that he was pulling away, sudden clarity coming to him. He had pressed his lips to hers, he had touched her and he burned, he ached so desperately and greedily for more. "And you are going above," he said firmly, stepping around her as he attempted to escape the confines of the kitchen. It suddenly seemed warm, far too warm and - oh, he was burning up.

When she caught his elbow he pulled away on instinct. He couldn't take it - one more moment of her softness, the feeling of her lips, her gentle, naive murmures. She was offended. When he turned and looked at her she seemed so terribly disturbed by his reaction. Her brow furrowed in concern. Oh, he couldn't bear her for one moment longer. How tempted he was to press his lips to that crease, to - to - no. He reigned in his thoughts with great effort, clenching his jaw tightly.

"You are naive," he said again. "You've no idea the way that you affect me; the things - you are naive, Christine, and I am a monster."

She blinked at him, her lips pressing together as she considered his words. "I am not as naive as you think me to be, Erik," she argued. "Those things - you aren't a monster. You are just a man."

He wasn't sure what sort of response he was meant to give to that; instead he stood in stunned silence, staring at her as he tried to decipher the meaning behind her words.

She took another step forward, her hand pressing gently against his arm, hesitating as though she was waiting for him to pull away. He couldn't. Instead he stared at her small hand on his arm, trying desperately to calm his breath, to ignore the burning  _want_  that her touch filled him with so completely.

"If you do not stop -" he warned, the words burning in his throat "- I cannot be held accountable for my actions. My resolve can only bend so far, Christine."

He watched as her tongue darted out, nervously wetting her lips. Her hand moved, resting against his shoulder as she drew closer and closer and, oh, the ignorant girl must think that he was lying. That was the only thing that he could bear to think as her fingers twisted in his jacket, as her second arm joined her first and she pressed herself close against him.

The only whimsical thought that came to him was that she smelled of roses. He couldn't be sure whether it was lingering bath oils or a perfume, but she smelled of roses and the thought made him weak. His fingers slowly rested, trembling, on the back of her head as he sighed.

"I'm not afraid of you," she declared, the words muffled against his chest.

Weak man that he was he couldn't find it in him to argue with her. The list of reasons one should fear him was lengthy and he hadn't the mind to pull it all together. Instead he stooped just the slightest bit, pressing his lips into her hair in an effort to catch her flowery scent only a little stronger.

She took the opportunity to lean back, her hands sliding to the back of his head, effectively trapping him as she pressed her lips to his again, hot and heady.

He hadn't the will to pull away; the will to resist what he craved so desperately was slowly waning, aided by the way she kissed him so fiercely, so needily. He could only growl against her mouth. His hand tangled tightly in her hair, his other hand found her perfect waist, pulling her hard against him.

She made a surprised sounding squeak, but her hands tangled in his lapels and she pulled him toward her instead of pushing him away and he satisfied himself with that.

His hand slid up from her waist as her lips moved against his in a surprisingly demanding way. When he dared to slip his hand beneath the mysterious edge of her dressing gown she made no protest, letting out a sweet, trembling sigh.

This time, when he cups her breast gently in his palm, it is not an accident.

She is trembling when she breaks their kiss, staring up at him with dark eyes and swollen lips. She is perfect, beautiful, desirable in every way and it is overwhelming. His thumb brushed gently, experimentally and even through her chemise he can feel her hardened nipple, can feel the way that her breath catches.

"And what of your Viscomte?" he asked, his words dark and heavy, need ebbing it's way into his tone.

Her lips parted but she gave no answer, her hand finding his arm. She squeezed it gently and his hand stilled. "I can assure you that he is the last thing on my mind at the moment."

That is all the answer that he needs. His hand slid out of the dressing gown, his agile fingers undid the knot and his breath caught at it fell open. She is so beautiful, so perfect, so exposed in her thin chemise and even though something in the back of his mind is screaming for him to stop, is screaming that this is a terrible mistake, he cannot bear to listen to it. His hands pushed the dressing gown off of her shoulders and she made no protest as it fell limply to the floor.

He wondered if she felt the same frantic need that he did. For a moment he almost considered asking her - and then, just as suddenly, the thought was gone as her hand slid down his arm and captured his tightly.

When she led him out of the kitchen he followed her easily. When he realised that he was leading him confidently into her bedroom his mouth went dry all over again, his doubt screaming at him so loudly that it was impossible to shut it out.

But she turned to him confidently in the doorway and her fingers worked at the buttons of his jacket fervently. One hand covered hers at the other tilted her chin up so that he could see into her eyes.

"Christine," he murmured, trying his best to keep his voice even, to ignore the way that he ached and burned. "This is - this is so much, so quickly. If you - if you do not want this, if you feel doubt, tell me now."

"I do not think I am the naive one, Erik," she answered, looking up at him confidently.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Her smile was sweet as she rocked up on her toes, pressing a kiss to the pulse in his throat. "I know what I am doing," she answered against his skin. It was terribly difficult for him to concentrate on her words when her lips were brushing against him in such a tantalizing way. "And I know what I want."

"What do you want?" his question was nothing more than a breath.

"You," she answered simply, returning her attention to the buttons of his jacket as she avoided his eye.

"Me," he said softly. She nodded, still refusing to look at him. "In what way?"

She bit her lip as she reached up, pushing his jacket off of his shoulders. "In this way," she said softly and finally she looked up at him, her smile shy and her eyes honest. "In every way," she whispered.

His fingers trembled when they framed her cheeks. He searched her face, desperate to find any sign of deception, any indication that she was lying and all he saw staring back at him was raw desire and open honesty. One finger darted out, brushing a loose curl out of her face and he leaned down, pressing his lips to her forehead. "Do you mean that?"

"I do," she whispered.

"And your boy?"

She shook her head slowly. "It doesn't matter," she answered softly. "His brother would hardly ever approve anyway and I… I know what I want. Maybe it's taken me longer to figure it all out than it should have but I  _do_  know."

His lips pressed to hers again, slow and gentle, and she kissed him back with fervor, trusting him as he led her slowly across the room until her legs bumped against the edge of the bed.

He paused, looking at her closely as he weighed his words carefully and then, sighing, he pressed his lips against her jaw, trailing them slowly down her throat. "I love you," he murmured against her skin.

She sighed. Her pulse was quick under his lips, her breath slow as her fingers twisted in his hair. "Erik?"

"Hmm?"

"I think I love you too," she whispered softly, falling into him as he brushed her hair over her shoulder.

There were no words that would ever be enough to describe the feeling that her simple sentence inspired in him. It was intoxicating, the thought that she could even whisper the words in such an unsure way, and instead of responding to her he pressed against her, pressing closer and closer until finally she sat upon the edge of the bed.

Her legs opened easily, her heels hooked around his knees and pulled him far closer to her than he had ever dreamt that he would be. She looked up at him, her eyes dark and seductive, her lips parted and slowly she reached for him, trying to tug him down to him.

He slowly pried her fingers from his sleeves, shaking his head. "Not yet," he murmured softly. "Lay back, Christine."

The feeling in his chest when she obeyed him was overwhelming. The sound that she made when he reached beneath her chemise and brushed his fingers gently against her thighs was only more so.

He gathered the material in his hand, bunching it around her waist and making quick work of the ties of her bloomers, yanking them away carelessly.

His breath caught at the sight of her; the thick curls that hid her from him. He glanced up at her, finding that she lay back, eyes closed. He blinked, his thumbs parting the folds of her flesh gently as he allowed himself to gaze at her.

He had never seen anything so remarkably  _pink_  in his life. One finger trailed experimentally through the pink flesh and she whimpered at his touch. His mouth was dry, so incredibly dry. "You are so beautiful," he murmured, leaning forward and pressing his lips to her core. She jerked, gasping at the sensation and he only repeated the action.

Erik had no practise in the art of making love but he had certainly witnessed it. First in the gypsy camps. He had watched as lovers devoured each other at the edge of the fire's light, unembarrassed and brazen. In Persia he had been exposed far more and, even now, in the dark corners of the opera it was not rare to find a pair of lovers, clinging to each other quietly.

Though he had no practical experience he was a fast learner and the sounds from Christine's pretty, perfect lips only guided him more. The firm press of his tongue here made her gasp, the swirl of his tongue made her thighs tremble and when he dared to close his lips on her she cried out, her back arching as her fingers tangled in his hair.

He pressed one brave digit inside of her gently, curling it upward in her warm slickness and she trembled.

When she gasped desperately, his name trembling out of her mouth and her muscles contracting so desperately around his finger, he pressed one more kiss to her and climbed up beside her, pulling her against him and brushing her hair back as she tried to catch her breath.

Her fingers clutched his shirt tightly as he pressed gentle kisses to her forehead.

She slowly seemed to come down, her fingers loosening their grip and she tilted her head back, pressing her chest to his as she found his lips with hers again. This kiss was different than the others - it was slow and sated, content, lacking all of her curious and frantic need from before. It was a kiss simply for the sake of kissing and it inspired something warm deep in him.

"I… I think I love you," she murmured again, smiling shyly against his lips.

"I think I love you too," he answered warmly, brushing his thumb over her cheek.

The look in her eyes told him that it was not a lie. She shifted, her fingers brushing over his chest, and then she was pulling back just the slightest bit, working at the buttons of his shirt.

He watched her carefully as she found his scars. She spread his shirt open slowly, her eyes raking over the marks. And then, with a slow breath, her lips pressed to one mark. They ran gently over the length of it and - oh, if such exquisite torture was his reward he would gladly have a thousand more of the ugly marks.

She moved from scar to scar, lifting herself on her elbow to reach one on his shoulder and he sighed, closing his eyes against the pleasure. It was a remarkable thing, watching her perfect lips move so graciously against his marred skin.

He let her go on until he could hardly stand it and then he caught her wrists, drawing her up and rolling her beneath him as he claimed her mouth. Her legs fell open and she gazed up at him hungrily.

"Do you mean it, Christine?" he whispered.

"Mean what?"

"That you would ever - that you could ever be mine," he answered shakily.

"Look at me," she murmured softly, smiling confidently up him as she ran her foot along his calve. "Look at me, right now, and tell me who else's I could ever be? I  _am_  yours, Erik."

He pulled her hand up, pressing his lips to the inside of her wrist. "I do love you," and the words came out broken and stuttering.

"And I do  _want_  you," she murmured meaningfully, looking straight up at him.

When he released her wrists her hands found their way to his trousers, undoing the fastenings carefully.

It hardly seemed fair that he be naked when she still hid in her half-on chemise. It was with that thought that he caught the wrinkled material, yanking it upward. She lifted her arms with no coaxing and the sight of her, nude and flushed and  _wanting_ beneath him, was nearly enough to be his undoing.

"Please, Erik," she murmured softly, arching her back meaningfully. And how could he deny her?

There was a moment of adjusting, of finding the right position, before he was able to ease himself into the right spot.

When he pressed himself slowly inside of her there was a long moment in which he actually believed that he would die. The sensation was absolutely overwhelming; all that he could smell was her faint scent of rose, all that he could feel was her heat, her soft skin, her breath and heartbeat. She let out the strangest sound, caught somewhere between a sob and a gasp, and it was all he could do to clutch her hips tightly as he allowed his head a moment to stop spinning.

Her fingers wrapped around his upper arms tightly and it was all too much, far too much. He craved and ached and  _desired_  so strongly that when he began to move within her it was with no conscious thought of his own.

It was the sound that she made that stopped him, or perhaps it was the way that her fingers tightened on his arm, or the way that her eyes pressed closed so very tightly. He couldn't be sure what exactly it was but he paused all the same, grazing his lips over perfect cheeks and her nose, against her forehead, claiming her lips gently as he attempted to fight away the strong urge to simply ignore her cry.

He was not a monster. No. He was certainly not a monster, she had said so herself, and he would not be one to her.

"I'm hurting you," his words were gruff and uneven to his own ear.

She shook her head slowly, forcing her eyes open and gazing up at him carefully. "I only need a moment," her words shivered and shook. "It's - it's normal, I think, I only need just a moment."

So a moment he gave her; a still moment of lips grazing over perfect skin, a moment of hands brushing over soft skin, a moment of his hand cupping the perfect peaks of her breast, a moment of fingers tweaking and exploring. She sighed breathily and he pressed his lips, finally, gently against hers as his hand slid between their bodies, one long finger gently rolling the sensitive bundle of nerves that sat in that space where she ended and he began.

"Oh," she breathed, her hips jolting against him.

It was all the invitation he needed. When he began to move again it was slow and gentle, hips rolling slowly against hips as his finger continued its lewd and completely inappropriate ministrations.

She responded in kind; the imperceptible buck of her hips as she met his thrusts, the quiver of her lip as a trembling sigh escaped her, the way she bared her pale, perfect, white throat as she arched her back so needily.

When she came apart it was his undoing. The way that she shuddered around him and cried out, her fingers scrambling to pull him closer. It was all far too much and with a groan he pressed deeply inside of her, finding the release he had so long denied himself.

They stayed that way for a long while, connected as he pressed his masked face into the crook of her neck, as the world spun nauseatingly around him.

It was her hand that grounded him, the soothing brush of her warm fingers against his shoulder, the way that she pressed her lips into his thin hair as they caught their breaths.

When he finally found it in him to roll off of her she wasted no time, pulling herself close against his side in silence. It was his turn now - still trembling fingers carded through her curls, still not quite convinced that it wasn't all just an elaborate dream.

She sighed contentedly, her fingers tracing over an old scar on his chest thoughtfully. "Erik?"

"Hmm?"

"I  _do_  love you," she confessed on a whisper, her lips pressing under his jaw.

Perhaps all accidents were not so terrible and perhaps, if he was honest, all hope was not so terribly idiotic after all.


End file.
